


My Name, Your Spell

by Momokai



Series: sweetest touch, words like song [4]
Category: The Yin-Yang Master: Dream of Eternity, 晴雅集 | The Yin-Yang Master (2020)
Genre: Boya Too But Like, Boya's Existential Crisis (TM), Coming Untouched, Extreme Fishing: Boya Edition, Getting Together, Gratuitous Smut, Guest Starring: Boya's Gay Panic, He Fumbles His Feels A Lot, Honey Bug For Like A Second, Improbable And Likely Inaccurate Magic, Is He Man Or Bird, Look He Thinks He's Got This But He Really Doesn't, M/M, Me Quietly Shuffling In Some Headcanons Regarding Them, Mildly Touch Starved Boya, Multiple Orgasms, POV Boya, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Qing Ming Is A Little Shit, Qing Ming Is Absolutely Besotted, Qing Ming nO, Qing Ming yEs, Rimming, Service Top Qing Ming, Slash, Smut, Spirit Guardian's, Tenderness, The Vermilion Bird, Yes Boya That's Your Prostate Calm Down, but also smooth af, how does one tag, post movie-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29484459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momokai/pseuds/Momokai
Summary: He staggers back, blackness rapidly encroaching on his vision as his legs buckle and collapse beneath him, sword clattering loudly against stone as it slips from boneless fingers. He doesn’t feel the impact when he hits the ground, doesn’t hear the sound his body must make when it crumples to the stone. He only hears a deep, resounding pulse. Like a heartbeat. Like a gong.Boya fades.Someone calls.His world explodes in vermilion light.Alternatively:Qing Ming is an idiot with the worst timing ever, Boya goes fishing, gets wings again, has an existential crisis and gets laid. In that order.
Relationships: Qing Ming/Boya
Series: sweetest touch, words like song [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165322
Comments: 33
Kudos: 225





	My Name, Your Spell

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the _Sweetest Touch, Words Like Song _verse, a series of connected but non-linear oneshots. Can be read on it's own or part of the series, in no particular order.__
> 
> POV: Boya

Above Imperial City the moon hangs bright and waning, half hidden by the passage of thick, dark clouds heavy with the promise of rain, the night broken by the rise and fall of voices and music from the cities streets, lit by flickering lanterns in a rainbow of colours, awake and alive with those who call the city home. 

Away from the bustle and light of the city center, towards the dark and near lifeless outskirts, a night bird screeches, its eerie call echoing through still streets, over blackened waterways and betwixt broken walls. 

Doors and window shutters slam closed in the following silence, occupants of broken homes barring themselves from the night outside in fear, in knowing. 

All knew what awaited those foolish enough to venture out during a Night Hunt. 

And a Hunt it is, if only for one. 

From his perch atop a crumbling roof, Boya taps a finger against the hilt of his sword, still sheathed at his back. He hasn't much moved from his post since he'd climbed to it as the last rays of sunlight dipped behind the horizon and true night fell. By all accounts, he is in the right place, and he intends to remain until his quarry reveals itself.

Beneath his perch, the narrow cobble streets stretch wide around a waterway as black as a moonless night. Had the stars not been hidden behind thick cloud cover, Boya knows he would see them reflected upon the waters still surface, a mirror of nature's design. It would be beautiful, he thinks, if not for what might lurk beneath, as still waters run deep. 

And lurk, something did. The common folk had not known what to make of the upswing in drownings recently, but as a master cultivator in the business of hunting what went bump in the night (and sometimes day), Boya has an idea. 

Water spirits aren't uncommon in Imperial City. They thrive in the waterways spread throughout its walls. In most cases, these spirits are benign, content to go about their own existence as the living do theirs. However, in some cases, one might turn...foul. Usually at the hand of an act of violence, or an unclean death. 

After the awakening and subsequent release of the Evil Serpent not two years past, there was an unfortunate yet unavoidable increase in such. 

Boya is certain he now hunts a water ghoul, one resentful enough to snatch and drown women. _Unacceptable_. 

Below him, an old woman labours in her boat, clothing threadbare and patchwork, clearly having seen better days. Her face is downturned as she rows, hidden beneath the fall of wild grey hair that has long since violently escaped its bun. Boya's dark eyes follow the woman, hawk like as she slowly drifts beyond his perch, the silence of the night broken only by the gentle lapping of water disturbed by her paddles. 

Idly, Boya turns away and squats down to reach into the bag he'd left by his feet, and withdraws a lengthy coil of sturdy twine. Standing once more, Boya threads the twine through his fingertips to unravel it before reaching behind his head to retrieve an arrow from his quiver. With deft hands, he ties the end of the twine to the arrow and strokes a single finger over the delicately shorn fletching. 

Suddenly, he hears a whisper and pauses, arrow still in hand. Boya quirks his head slightly, listening. A beat passes, two, but only silence greets him. Brows drawn together faintly, he returns to his task.

Tossing the body of twine at his feet, Boya unfolds his bow with a sharp snap and steps towards the edge of the roof, notches the arrow, draws to his cheek, and waits. 

A gentle breeze drifts by, carrying with it the scent of rot and a sudden unease. Boya inhales once, deeply, before he let’s the arrow fly. The arrow has barely left his bow before Boya casts it aside and drops to his knee to snatch up the length of twine at his feet, swiftly wrapping it once, then twice around his left hand before bringing his right to his chest, fingers set in a seal and lips moving soundlessly. 

A shrieking howl abruptly splits the night, and just as the last incantation slips silently past his lips the twine in his fist bursts into brilliant gold. Jumping back to his feet, Boya yanks on the enchanted line and finally sets his sights on his prey. 

Below him, in her boat, the old woman screams and loses her grip on the oars, falling back further into her boat as it bucks and tilts without warning. Boya yanks on the twine again, the golden line bright in the gloom and spearing a line into the black depths now churning against the side of the woman’s boat. Bracing his feet against the edge of the roof, Boya coils the line once more around his fist and grips it with both hands before throwing his weight backwards. The boat bucks again, harder this time, and the woman cries out in terror as she is almost sent overboard. Something detaches itself from the bottom of the rocking boat and flings itself violently against the side, splintering wood beneath its weight and clawing grasp. 

Grunting, Boya turns on his heel and heaves the line over his shoulder before digging his feet into the rooftop. Behind him the woman continues to wail in fear as the water ghoul fights to reach her, held back only by the enchanted line speared into its body and the strength of the demon hunter on the other end. 

All of a sudden, a sense of urgency hits him, and Boya almost slips under its intensity. Heart inexplicably racing with a panic he did not know the origin of, he resets his footing and leans his weight forward, shoving the feeling aside to examine when he isn’t attached to a very angry water ghoul. 

With a hissed exhale, Boya takes two, three laboured steps away from the edge, ignoring the sharp bite of twine digging into his fingers and the rabbit race of his heart. On his fourth step, Boya reaches the opposite end of the roof, smirks, and promptly steps off. On his way towards the ground, he quickly casts the line over the jutting edge of the awning before bracing himself. On the other side of the building, the water ghoul shrieks in surprise as it’s abruptly yanked off the boat entirely and dragged backwards through the churning water towards shore.

Boya’s boots hit the ground with the sort of bone jarring force that would shatter a normal man’s legs, but with the strength of his cultivation he merely powers through the impact and continues to haul his catch out of its domain. 

A less experienced cultivator might have taken a boat out and confronted the ghoul in the water, but Boya is no such idiot. 

Once he’d reached the predetermined distance, Boya gives the line one last hard yank before stooping to quickly hitch the length of glowing twine to a sturdy post. Once certain the line won’t come undone, Boya straightens and about faces, the night air chiming with the eerie song of drawn steel as he unsheaths his sword. 

On the path between two buildings leading out to the waterway, the ghoul jerks into view and screeches. It’s still attached to Boya’s line, and won’t be able to return to the water as a result. Apparently, the ghoul takes offence to such, because it abruptly lurches towards Boya with sharp, unnatural movements that set the fine hairs on the back of his neck on end. Out of the water and in the dim gloom of the moon, the water ghoul has taken the misshapen shape of a young woman. It’s clothed in layers of a sheer, waterlogged dress that is now more swamp green than the mourning white it had once been, ripped and torn and seemingly fused with gnarled clumps of water weeds and detritus. 

Loose stones rasp and scrape under his boots as Boya slides into a stance, sword held at an angle before him as the ghoul lurches at him with a hair raising screech, its sharp, needle like teeth visible between long ropes of matted black hair that almost seems to writhe as it clings to its body. 

_“-oya!”_

Boya startles, almost loosening the grip on his sword at the cry that echoes through his head right as the ghoul snaps out an arm tipped in long, sharp black talons on a course for his eyes. Boya sidesteps the attack in a whirl of loose cobble and dust before bringing his blade around and up, slicing clean through the outstretched arm. The ghoul shrieks in either pain or outrage, Boya can’t tell in his distraction- and tries to grab him with its one remaining arm, only to be batted aside by the flat of his blade, steel ringing loudly at the impact.

Bizarrely, his whole body shudders and shakes under the force of urgency pounding through his bones, and Boya growls as he jerks out of the way of a jet of swamp coloured water that churns and bellows out of the ghouls gaping mouth. The tainted water splatters and hisses against the cobblestone at his feet, and the ghoul snarls angrily at him from behind its sodden fall of writhing hair. 

**_“Boya!”_ **

His back twitches under his leathers, shoulders suddenly heating, and Boya grunts as the ghoul tries to lunge at the demon hunter again, the creature shrieking as it’s abruptly sent tumbling and sprawling to the ground courtesy of the merciless snap-kick Boya levels at its face. 

It scrabbles at the stone with its single hand in an attempt to claw itself back to its feet, but Boya wastes no time in stomping over to plant his boot into its back, teeth clenched against a panic not his own, forcing it to the ground and keeping it there as he quickly curls the hand not holding his sword into a seal. It’s usually over once he starts the incantation, barely a matter of finishing the beast off and sealing its essence in the soul trapping box he carries with him, but he can’t find the necessary focus. The incantation is just a string of fancy words without the careful flow of qi a cultivator imbues them with, and Boya uncharacteristically fumbles the proverbial ball under the weight of foreign panic and molten heat flooding his very blood. 

Inhaling a shuddering breath, Boya clenches his eyes shut and forces himself to concentrate, pushing past the bombardment of sensation and feeling to weave the purification and cleansing spell as the water ghoul howls and thrashes under his boot. 

Urgency pounds in his bones, almost driving him to rush through the spell, but he forces himself to take his time, to do it properly lest the ghoul return to wreak havoc on the innocents of Imperial City once more. He’s trembling with the need to hurry, to move, to be somewhere else, and he feels like he should be burning alive with the heat he swears is radiating from within him.

He isn’t aware of the black smoke curling from his shoulders. 

The last word leaves his lips, and Boya’s arm arcs gracefully despite his unsteady hands, blade descending upon the stunned ghoul without conscious thought. It bursts into a cloud of murky green sparks that disperse quickly, but Boya doesn’t see it. He staggers back, blackness rapidly encroaching on his vision as his legs buckle and collapse beneath him, sword clattering loudly against stone as it slips from boneless fingers. He doesn’t feel the impact when he hits the ground, doesn’t hear the sound his body must make when it crumples to the stone. He only hears a deep, resounding pulse. Like a heartbeat. Like a gong. 

Boya fades. 

Someone calls. 

His world explodes in vermilion light. 

He falls. 

He makes impact.

He opens his eyes and the urgency pounding through his bones quiets, fades. He feels...strange. Familiar, yet not. Present, but absent. He’s not on a dark, quiet street in the outskirts of Imperial City, isn’t certain if he should be. The scent of rot from Before is absent from his nose. Instead, there is snow, cool and sharp. Instead, there is blood, heavy and metallic. 

He doesn’t know where he is, or why he’s here. He thinks he should know, perhaps remembers something like this from the Before, but the thought is mist, it slips through his fingers before he can grasp it. He thinks he might have forgotten something important. He’s not sure if he cares. He’s not even sure who he is.

“Boya!” 

He looks up, and something clicks back into place. Disconnect shatters, and he remembers. 

Qing Ming. 

Vermilion Bird has been called. 

Qing Ming is a graceless sprawl in the snow, once pristine white and blue robes thrown into disarray and stained blooming red. His headdress is absent, hair disheveled and threatening to escape its topknot. He honestly looks like he’d been chewed on by a greater demon and spat back out. 

He hasn’t called on Boya like this since the Evil Serpent. Swore he would only in the most dire of circumstances. Laughingly stated he’d never get himself in that much trouble. 

After the deaths of Snow Hound, Mad Painter and Killing Stone, Qing Ming had been deprived of his greatest Spirit Guardians. He has many Spirits, yes, but most of them are not suited to combat. Honey Bug, perhaps, but she is a gentle Spirit, and Qing Ming had once admitted he was loath to expose her to such violence as the likes he would face if in need of her, even if she would be glad to help.

Vermilion Bird is, at this time, his only, if last resort. 

_“I’m not Master to my Spirits, Boya. Above all, I am a friend. I will never command you.”_

Looking at him now, Boya knows that Qing Ming is desperate. Feels that there is no other choice. _Got himself into too much trouble, the idiot._

Boya isn’t surprised. With Qing Ming, it’s only ever a matter of time. What surprises him is that it has taken this long.

As Vermilion Bird, the world moves strangely around him. Boya isn’t sure if it’s some otherworldly perception his Spirit form has, or if his still very much mortal mind simply isn’t equipped to deal with the frankly ridiculous amount of qi this form can harness. Maybe it’s simply a matter of practice? He wouldn’t know, this is only his second sojourn into Spirit Guardian-hood and he hasn’t actually ever thought to mayhaps ask one of Qing Ming’s Spirit Guardians. Would the answer even truly apply to him? He is not a demon found and taken in by Qing Ming, nor is he the product of a deceased ancestor. His ascension had been wrought by self sacrifice, one he had not believed he would return from, a fact he had accepted as he bled himself upon the Guardian statue. While Spirit Guardian’s born of self sacrifice aren’t exactly unique- Boya is, by merit of _being brought back_. Until now, he had been under the impression his Spirit form had dispersed, had believed that it could not be called upon while he lived, despite Qing Ming’s assurances to the contrary. Human souls are oddly delicate things, different from the altered souls of demons and unlike the spirits of nature that can twist the world and mortal beings around them. Humans cannot simply exist as two beings on the same plane. The mortal shell must die first, and the Spirit ascend. It is impossible for both to remain as one. 

Frankly, this is all giving Boya a headache. 

He thinks he might need to work this all out another time, because the reason he has been summoned at all makes itself known with a roar that sounds like a great sheet of ice cracking beneath his feet. 

He snaps his head around, loose hair twisting and fluttering over his shoulder as a biting gale howls into existence. Snow and shards of ice buffet him, hissing as they melt against the firelike heat of his skin, sending curls of steam into the air before the unnatural wind steals it away. In the distance, something large looms against the pale snow, obscured within the beginnings of a blizzard, and Boya thinks he might have been right on the mark with the thought of a greater demon. 

The landscape is barren around him, nothing but white as far as he can see between the sheets of snow and ice being cast about in the gales. Qing Ming has not moved from his sprawl in the snow, and Boya does not know if it is because he is too hurt or simply insensate. The demon howls again, a sound like glaciers colliding, and Boya makes the executive decision to regroup despite having only just arrived. 

He turns on his heel, boots hissing against the snow beneath his feet as he quickly makes his way to his summoner, hair whipping wildly in the wind. He reaches Qing Ming and knows he made the right decision when he sees that the blood on the other man's robes is in fact his and still very much flowing. 

Boya drops to his knees beside him and grips the front of his robes to carefully haul him up against his bare chest. Qing Ming is freezing to the touch and barely seems conscious to the manhandling, and Boya is suddenly grateful that he is a Spirit of Fire, that his flames will not burn his summoner, but warm him. 

He all but bundles the man against his bare chest, teeth clenching against the slick slide of blood against his skin and the hot inferno of righteous rage that builds within him. 

“ _Qing Ming_.” His voice is other, his yet not, but his distress bleeds through and it draws a pained groan from the man in his arms.

“B-oya?” Qing Ming’s eyes roll open with the effort of one fighting unconsciousness, and they’re red rimmed and hazy from a possible blow to the head. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, and no doubt spent too much qi. What he thought he was doing going up against what Boya has the sneaking suspicion is something akin to an Ice Born Abyss* without powerful Spirit Guardian's to back him up he doesn’t know, but he vows to have _words_ with him about it later.

 _“You fool.”_ He snaps, the otherness of his voice adding a rumble to mark his concern. Qing Ming must hear it for what it is, because his eyes abruptly clear and his blood flecked lips twitch up at the corners in what Boya decidedly chooses _not_ to see as impish. 

“I might h-have a problem.” He says, and Boya is nearly overcome with the urge to drop him back into the snow. Perhaps shove his face in it to see if it shocks some sense into him. He doubts it.

 _“I’d argue you have several.”_ He hisses with a scowl, before shoving his arms beneath his summoner and standing. Qing Ming makes a pained sound as he’s lifted from the red stained snow, and Boya viciously stomps on the curl of guilt that niggles at him at the sound. 

The ground trembles beneath his feet, and the Spirit turns to see the demon approaching on laborious limbs. Whatever Qing Ming had done to the beast seems to have slowed it greatly, and Boya feeds the vicious approval he feels to the fire inside. He still can’t make out the form of the demon through the steadily worsening blizzard, but he has no interest in finding out with an armful of bleeding and possibly concussed summoner. 

_“Hold onto me.”_ He says, and drops his gaze back to the man in his arms. Qing Ming wastes no time, hesitates not at all as he lifts a trembling arm to hook over his shoulder and neck. His hair pulls uncomfortably beneath the arm, but it’s a discomfort easily ignored as he instinctively calls the heat within to the markings across his shoulder blades, and in a billow of smoke and flame untouched by the icey gale, great black wings dipped in vermilion erupt from his back. He bends, arcs his wings, and with a powerful downward push, lunges for the sky.

The fierce and resentful winds immediately try to drag them back to the ground, but Boya is the Vermilion Bird, his Spirit one with flame and sky, and with a mighty beat of his wings, Boya tears them from the unnatural gales grasp and ascends to the clouds. Far beneath them, the demon roars its thunderous rage at their heels, thwarted. 

Qing Ming clings to him, aware enough to know that letting go is a terrible idea despite the iron, if careful, grip Boya has on him. The Spirit thinks there does not exist a force in any world that could make him relinquish his hold.

The air lightens as they rise higher and higher, the cloying weight of resentful qi lessoning the further from the demon they fly, until all at once they break through the clouds and into a clear night sky. 

It’s beautiful up here, Boya thinks. Here, above the clouds that would hide away the sky, the waning moon hangs low and the stars stretch for eternity in all directions. A part of him wants to see how far the stars go, wants to soar between their light until he finds the edge of the world, and perhaps fly off it to find new ones- but he turns away from it. He is needed here. He will not leave Qing Ming behind. 

The temptation to stay a little longer just to bask in the beauty of it is strong, but they cannot linger, he knows. This high the air grows thin, and whilst his form is that of a Spirit and doesn’t require breath, Qing Ming is very much human and will likely suffocate. 

He glances down at his precious burden, and twitches when he finds Qing Ming’s gaze already fixed on him. The look in those dark, red rimmed eyes stokes the inferno in his breast, and Boya jerks his eyes away, stunned. 

It is not the first time he’s seen those eyes, and just as every time before, he finds himself unable to meet them for more than a second. One day, he thinks, maybe. 

With a flex of vermilion qi, Boya opens a portal in the sky, and carries them through on powerful wings. 

Ideally, he wants to take Qing Ming straight to his home where he can be treated and healed by the small army of Spirit Guardian’s he no doubt has there, but he almost instinctively knows that he needs to make a pit stop first. 

He glides them out of the portal above Imperial City, and grimaces as they are promptly rained on. He doesn’t notice the way his feathers poof in surprise. In his arms, Qing Ming makes a delighted sound. Boya, certain that he is being laughed at but unsure as to why, ignores him as he descends quickly to the outskirts, to a street greeting the shores of an expansive waterway. 

The scent of rot that had once permeated the street has been washed away by the rain, and Boya alights with grace upon the stone road beside a crumpled body, wings ruffling briefly before dispersing into wisps of black smoke. 

His body, to be precise. 

Top five strangest experiences, that. 

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” Qing Ming announces in his arms, peering down at Boya’s mortal skin left to prune in the growing puddle of rain beneath it. The Spirit sighs, aggrieved, and carefully balances his burden on one arm, freeing the other so he can stoop to grab a fistful of leather armour and, aided by Spiritual strength, hauls himself out of the puddle before something regrettable happens. Like his body drowning in less than an inch of water. Well, it would certainly put an end to his existential crisis, he supposes.

Boya shudders, strangely uncomfortable with touching his own body, currently separate from himself. He thinks he can even feel a strange pressure against his Spirit flesh. Top five, indeed. 

“I hope you don’t catch cold.” Qing Ming murmurs, concerned, and Boya barely prevents himself from rolling his eyes.

 _“If anyone’s going to catch cold, it will be you.”_ He states as he turns, opening another portal, this time at street level. Qing Ming huffs, then makes a noise of protest as Boya walks them through the portal, dragging his mortal body behind them by the lapel of his leathers. 

“Boya.” He admonishes, but the Spirit chooses to ignore the tone and continues to carefully carry his summoner and carelessly drag himself from wet stone to lush grass. The portal closes behind them, and Boya steers them all to Qing Ming’s compound, barely thinking to _not_ just drag himself up the stairs lest he give himself a concussion to suffer through later, and instead hitches his own dead weight higher to carry it over the steps. He avoids looking at his own slack, rain dappled face and silently dreads waking up wet, cold and probably sore once his Spirit is dismissed. Maybe, he thinks, he should leave himself by a fire. 

Qing Ming as well, actually.

“Oh my! Master!” Honey Bug exclaims as they crest the veranda, and Boya wastes no time in handing himself off to her as she rushes forward to aid him with his burden. She tuts over them all, delicately righting the helm tilted askew on Boya’s mortal head while bemoaning their sodden state even as she hustles them inside, Qing Ming tittering his amusement in his arms as they go. Boya emphatically ignores the way she clutches his boneless body concernedly against her bosom. 

Boya strides down the hall, feet leading him to the masters suite, and approaches the bed where he gently deposits his summoner onto clean silken sheets. He can sort everything else out later. For now, he needs to get Qing Ming warm, dry and healed. 

Decision made, he kneels on the mattress beside Qing Ming and reaches for his snow soaked, blood stained robes. Qing Ming, the bastard, simpers. 

“So eager, Boya.” He chuckles, and the Spirit’s brows slam together in a scowl even as his ears burn. 

_“Shameless!”_ He all but snarls, and Qing Ming only chuckles harder, before cringing in pain. 

“Alright, laughter bad.” The man grunts, and Boya snorts, hands absently fussing with the bedding, contemplating retrieving a quilt from another room.

 _“This is all your fool selfs fault.”_ He says, only a little vindictively as he finally helps Qing Ming out of his elegant but very much ruined upper robes, carelessly tossing the soiled and torn fabric aside. With his torso bared, Boya is relieved to see that the damage looked worse than it actually is. There’s still a nasty gash running the length of his summoner's waist however, smooth skin torn in a jagged, blood caked line below his ribs, and Boya settles closer on the mattress facing him, trying to ignore the way their thighs press together. He gathers his qi and reaches out to gently spread his fingers over the wound, carefully urging it to close. The bleeding had already ceased thankfully, the cultivator’s own energy working to heal his body, and Boya once again finds himself glad that the injury wasn’t as serious as he’d initially believed. Qing Ming sighs at his gentle touch, and hums appreciatively as the heat of Boya’s power warms him from within, soothing his aches and healing his wound, speeding his recovery.

He looks ready to fall asleep on the spot, eyes drifting shut under the attention and Boya, without thought, lets his eyes drift as he heals him. Without the thick layers of his robes to shield his torso, Qing Ming is revealed to be a cultivator who follows the principle of strong body, strong qi, to Boya’s silent appreciation. The thick fabrics he seems so fond of do much to hide the strength of his physique, and Boya doesn’t quite know why he is so surprised. He has felt the power in this man's form on numerous occasions, but has always been, perhaps by design, deceived by an almost demure countenance and softly spoken words. Boya himself is the opposite. He does not generally hide behind layers that could potentially hinder his movements. His body is his weapon, and like all good weapons, he has honed it with pride and skill, his armour more often than not form fitting, complimentary to his fighting style and preferences. 

Without opening his eyes, Qing Ming speaks;

“Are you staring, Boya?” The Spirit jumps, caught out, and withdraws his qi. His hand however lingers traitorously against Qing Ming’s flesh for perhaps a beat too long before Boya quickly snatches it away, swallowing thickly. At least, he is pleased to see, his efforts have not gone to waste, as the previously torn skin of Qing Ming’s side is once again whole and unbroken, if not the fresh pink of new skin and likely tender to the touch. Looking away and clearing his suddenly dry throat, Boya pointedly casts his gaze about the room, belatedly wondering where Honey Bug has left his body. It isn’t in the room with them, he notices. He’s not sure how he feels about that. 

“Boya.” If the bug behaves in any way indecently with his body he will not be held accountable for his actions, Qing Ming, he swears to the gods. 

Cool fingers graze his sheek and Boya startles, abruptly returning his gaze to the man beside him. Fingers caress his cheek once more, and Boya falls almost preternaturally still. As if the touch is a Binding and not simply pressure against skin. 

“ _Boya_.” Qing Ming says again. Boya suppresses a shudder, and thinks that this man has so many ways in which to say his name.

 _“Mn?”_ He grunts, stunned under the fingertips upon his cheek. Qing Ming says nothing more, but his touch shifts into a proper caress, tracing the sharp curve of his cheekbone before tenderly following the slope of his jaw. The flames in his breast spark, flutter, and burn hotter. A thumb lightly ghosts over his lips, tentative for a moment as if afraid he might spook- but Boya is still stunned motionless under the weight of sentiment, and the touch finally deems it safe to bolden, the weight of it tugging at his bottom lip. Boya doesn’t suppress the shudder that wracks his body in time, and Qing Ming smiles as if he doesn’t notice. As if he is unknowing of the power his touch seems to hold over him. As if unaware of the fire he is stoking. 

“Thank you.” He says at last, and the Spirit swallows as the thumb against his lip drifts down, tugging the flesh for a moment before it finds the bold, graceful line of black gracing his chin that Boya is mostly unaware of. He says nothing in response, is not convinced he even can. Qing Ming had called, and Boya had come. Even if at the time he’d had no idea what was happening, he believes something in him might have.

The fingers cupping his jaw and thumb below his lip seem impossibly hot against Boya’s otherworldly skin, and as if compelled by a greater force than himself, he leans into the touch. Qing Ming’s smile widens, and he gazes up at him with those _eyes_ once again, and somehow this time, Boya finds himself unable to look away. The hand cradling his face shifts with intent, featherlight, and gently tugs. Boya feels himself following the gentle request without thought, finds the fires within him stoked to greater strength the more he leans, so overcome that he thinks burning wouldn’t be quite so bad, if only this touch remained.

Bracing a hand against the mattress he leans down, chasing Qing Ming’s touch or being led by it, he’s not entirely certain. He barely notices the glide of hair slipping over his shoulder in a silken wave of black, or the gentle flickers of vermilion flames that escape the inferno within him to lick at his bare shoulders. His world has inexplicably narrowed down to Qing Ming. To his touch. His gaze. His mouth. 

Boya doesn’t realize how far he’s gone until warm breath whispers against his lips, and he stops, frozen once more, and can only watch as after a moment that stretches on for eternity, Qing Ming leans up to close the remaining distance, closer and closer until -

Boya lurches awake with a ragged gasp, edges of his vision flickering with the retreat of vermilion flames, and he claps a hand to his chest with a faint wheeze as the inferno belonging to his Spirit form reluctantly recedes, leaving him almost uncomfortably warm in its wake. 

Somewhere, someone splutters a loud curse.

Inordinately confused, Boya jerks his eyes around the room he finds himself in. He recognises it, vaguely, as the guest quarters in the main building of Qing Ming’s estate. Sighing, he slumps back into the warm sheets he’d been laid upon, and closes his eyes, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and willing the strange double sense of having been in two places at once away. The skin of his face is hot to touch, but Boya chalks it up to his Spirit returning to it’s impossible mortal shell. 

After a moment spent gathering himself, Boya finally sits up once again and takes stock of himself. Surprisingly, he isn’t sore or overly rain damp, and it takes him an embarrassingly lengthy moment to realize why. He is very much dry and very much _not_ in his leathers. He splutters, ears burning under his hair, which has also apparently been tended to and left mostly loose, thick strands mercifully tied away from his face but left to hang heavily against his back and shoulders. _Honey Bug._

Boya smacks a hand against the sheets in a moment of poorly restrained indignation and kicks his legs over the side of the bed, standing on bare feet and grumbling at the fact as he scans the room. The bug has evidently seen fit to strip and change him whilst his Spirit was absent. He...will probably have to hunt her down now, Qing Ming, he’s not sorry. Boya pauses in the search for his gear, brows drawing together faintly. 

He feels like he’s missed something. His memory drifts, the last few hours present yet elusive in the manner of Vermilion Birds summoning, until a moment passes and they settle under his scrutiny, thoughts and memories unfurling amongst smoke and flame, flavoured with the echoing heat of a binding touch.

_Qing Ming._

It comes back to him suddenly, and Boya swallows thickly. He’s moving before he consciously tells himself to, leaving the guest room and following a path he isn’t sure how he knows but doesn’t stop, unerringly drawn back to the place he’d been a moment before. He sees no one on his journey, Honey Bug suspiciously absent as he all but stalks the halls towards his destination, borrowed robes fluttering in his wake and bare feet loud against pristine timber. 

He reaches the doors at last, fine rice paper lit from within and framed in beautifully crafted wood. Boya’s progress stalls at the closed threshold, and he hesitates with one hand raised to grasp the simple iron ring that is suddenly intimidating in its symbolism. He’s self aware enough to know what will happen if he opens these doors. Knows that he has been presented with a choice. Open the doors, and continue the notes composed over a series of meetings, words and touches, or leave them closed and let the song trail off, unfinished and unrecognized. He thinks...that whatever choice he makes, it will be accepted.

It’s perhaps this thought that makes up his mind, and Boya uses both hands to slide open the doors with perhaps more haste than strictly dignified, the wood thumping loudly in the quiet of the compound. Halfway out of bed, Qing Ming jumps and whips around to stare at Boya in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise and a touch of...concern. 

“Boya-” Qing Ming starts, uncharacteristically hesitant in the face of his silent figure in the threshold, and Boya drops his hands from the doors to step further into the room, approaching the bed and its occupant with almost predatory intent as Qing Ming watches him with lips parted. Ordinarily, Boya thinks he might actually be above what he does next, but in the moment he doesn’t particularly care. He remembers the feel of cool skin against his face, the caress of fingers on his cheek, the bold touch of a thumb against his lips, the feeling of warmth in his chest- and Boya doesn’t even hesitate when he lifts one knee onto the bed at a silent Qing Ming’s thigh, and then the other, almost aggressively straddling the mans lap as he grasps first his shoulder, and then his jaw in a mirror of his Spirit form moments ago with sure hands. 

_“_ Boya- _”_ Qing Ming breathes, but Boya silences him by leaning down and closing the distance. Qing Ming gasps as their lips meet, hands snapping out to grip high on Boya’s hips and all but melting against him. 

Boya has certainly kissed people before. Had intimate relations with men and women alike. He is quite popular amongst the simpering masses of young women of the age to marry and young, beautiful men seeking temporary companionship. He knows what to do, and what to expect. 

What he doesn’t expect is what kissing _Qing Ming_ does to him. Kissing Qing Ming turns out to be completely different from kissing anyone else, and Boya is unprepared for the return of the inferno he is sure belongs to his Spirit form in the wake of warm lips against his own. He does not stop. He doesn’t think he’s capable, in fact. 

Boya presses further against the man beneath him, world narrowed down to the wet glide of their lips and teasing flicks of tongue, and feels the heat of satisfaction as a groan tears its way out of Qing Ming. He swallows it smugly, greedily, and grunts as the hands gripping his hips slide further back, lower. If he wasn’t already otherwise occupied, he might have rolled his eyes as Qing Ming grips indulgent handfuls of his flank. 

“Indecent.” He huffs when they finally part for air, and Qing Ming smirks, lips shiny and pink. 

“You’re the one who climbed into my lap, sweetheart.” He says playfully, and Boya splutters.

“Do _not-mphf!”_ Qing Ming cuts him off with a grin laden kiss, and Boya bites the bastard's lip in retaliation, making him jump in surprise. Boya uses the opportunity to bury a hand in the man’s hair and slide his tongue past his lips, deepening the kiss, and Qing Ming groans appreciatively, welcoming him in as his touch tightens against Boya’s flank, fingers almost kneading into the firm muscle there before using the grip to draw him closer. Boya instinctively grinds down at the motion, and Qing Ming’s grip turns bruising, before abruptly retreating. Boya almost protests the absence, but is distracted when hands pull and tug at the front of his borrowed robe. The black fabric parts easily, and Qing Ming withdraws from his lips to reverently slide it from his shoulders, palms hot against his bared skin. Boya wants to fling the robe off completely, but that would require relinquishing his grip on Qing Ming, and he finds himself loath to. The robe remains bunched at his elbows as warm hands follow the curve of his shoulders inward, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his collarbones, and Boya shudders under the touch even as it dips lower, fingers spreading wide over the firm muscle of his chest and just barely grazing a sensitive nipple. As Qing Ming takes him in with hooded eyes, Boya is abruptly made aware of just how hard his heart is racing. 

“Boya.” It still perplexes him, how many ways this man can say his name, and Boya opens eyes he didn’t even realize he’d reflexively closed under the weight of the gaze upon him. Qing Ming is looking up at him, the usual deep, earthen brown of his eyes naught but a thin ring around blown pupils. The hands against his chest sink lower, palms caressing the ridges of his stomach before drifting to his sides, thumbs stroking just below his ribs. The touch sends a shiver up his spine, and Boya finds himself locking his gaze with Qing Ming’s and rolling his hips forward into the man’s rather obvious arousal. Qing Ming gasps in surprise, and Boya leans back in to swallow the sound he makes when he does it again. 

The hands at his waist suddenly snap back to his flank, and Boya jerks as Qing Ming uses his grip to mercilessly grind him forward, sending a shock of pleasure up his spine as his own burgeoning arousal is gifted friction. He retaliates by pulling away, their lips parting with a wet sound, and is surprised by the way he pants. Qing Ming makes a faint sound of protest, leaning up to chase his lips, but he doesn’t get far before Boya smirks and uses the grip he still has on him to shove him back. The other master grunts in surprise as he falls back onto the mattress with a muffled _fwump_. 

“So eager, Qing Ming.” He teases, voice unexpectedly rough as he repeats the man’s own words from earlier, only to then roll his eyes when Qing Ming honest to gods _pouts_ at him. Hands creep onto his thighs, mapping the lines and curves of the powerful muscles within, and Qing Ming’s pout slides into a smile. 

“With such beauty in front of me, how can I be blamed?” He replies, and Boya’s ears turn hot. Choosing to ignore that particular backfire, Boya straightens and finally shrugs the rest of the borrowed robe off, the fabric sliding from his skin like the finest silk to pool beside the bed, leaving him in only equally borrowed black pants.

Qing Ming’s gaze drops and wanders appreciatively once more, and Boya is caught between the desire to preen or roll his eyes. He does neither, and instead plants his hands on the firm stomach below him, and rolls his hips. 

Qing Ming makes a choked sound and arches beneath him while Boya exhales quietly through parted lips. 

“ _Boya_.” Qing Ming moans, warning and wanting at once, and Boya does it again just to watch dark eyes flutter closed and kiss swollen lips part. The hands on his thighs clench, fingers snarling the soft fabric covering them, and Boya isn’t certain how long he’ll be able to tease the man before either of them lose patience. He’s harder than he’s been in his life, he thinks, and the hot, firm arousal he can feel beneath him is drying his mouth out. He almost can’t help it when he grinds down again, and is brought satisfaction by the way Qing Ming bucks ardently against him. 

“Tell me what you want.” He murmurs, voice gone deep, like something rich and sweet. Qing Ming opens his eyes, dark pools of heated black bathed in candlelight and desire and something almost feline. 

“You, Boya. Only you.” He answers, and the words reach him in unexpected ways. Boya collapses forward, hands slamming into the bedding on either side of Qing Ming, and crashes their lips together, hair falling over his shoulders to pool by his hands, curtaining their ardour in silken walls of midnight. It’s not the indulgent, wet glide of before- it is fierce, passion unrestrained and for a moment their teeth clack together, lips are bitten, and tongues collide. Until a hand parts the thick fall of Boya’s hair shielding them, and grasps his cheek. After that, it slows, gentles, passion simmering to something languid, something decadent and infinitely more powerful, and Boya trembles at the force of it. He melts. He _moans_. 

He yelps when his world, narrowed down to Qing Ming and the glorious slide of their mouths together, flips. His back meets the mattress only long enough for hands to work under him, and then he’s being lifted higher, feet slipping on the silk bedding until his head meets a pillow, and Qing Ming looms above him with his bare chest and dark eyes. Something snaps, and then Qing Ming’s hair, already intent on escaping its topknot, tumbles down his back and shoulders. If Boya was a lesser man he might have gaped, as it is he merely snorts faintly and reaches up to pull the man down, and Qing Ming comes willingly, spreading himself over Boya and blanketing him in his warmth and scent as he’s tugged into another kiss just as languid as before.

The wet slide of their lips is loud in the silence of the room, and the sound is as exciting to him as the warm body between his thighs. Boya’s hands find warm skin, and Qing Ming shudders above him as he traces idle paths over his chest, nails lightly catching on a dusky nipple before continuing down the length of his stomach, fingertips pausing to tease through the trail of fine dark hairs he finds below his navel, before abruptly dropping lower to firmly cup the seat of his arousal. Qing Ming groans, and Boya swallows the sound as he palms the cock in his hand through the fabric it strains against. 

It is not often that Boya lays on his back during the occasional intimacy, with women or with men, either preferring to maintain a certain level of composure or simply to the tastes of his partner. But with Qing Ming a steady weight over him, suffused with his warmth and the heady scent of him, Boya _aches_ for him. He is no stranger to receiving such pleasure, but this is perhaps the first time he finds himself _craving_ it. 

Qing Ming sighs against his lips, grinding down into his hand and Boya rumbles in response before releasing the man’s cock to instead claw at the waist of his pants, fingers tugging insistently on the white fabric in search of the ties hidden within its folds. Qing Ming abruptly withdraws, disengaging from the kiss to sit back on his knees, and Boya ruthlessly chokes back the displeased sound that tries to escape him. Qing Ming joins him in the effort to remove the ties of his pants, hands fumbling with the layers of his normally elegant but now quite vexing attire, and Boya leaves him to it to instead scrabble at his own, only just barely resisting the urge to simply tear at the fabric. He finds and pulls the ties on his pants more through luck than any level of skill, and doesn’t even get the chance to finally free his own arousal from its confines before Qing Ming shifts, grasps two handfuls of the fabric at his thighs and _yanks._ Fabric pops, strained beyond its capability, and Boya makes a vague sound of protest as Qing Ming works it free of his thighs, his knees, and bends back to pull it over his feet. The pants are summarily tossed over Qing Ming’s shoulder before Boya can comment, and then he is completely bare under the others heated gaze. Boya shivers under the scrutiny, and decidedly does not squirm. Instead he licks his lips and asks;

“Oil?” Gods, he barely recognizes his own voice. Qing Ming continues to stare wordlessly at him for a moment, before visibly swallowing. A portal appears at Qing Ming’s side, just large enough for his hand to pass through, and he reaches into it to retrieve… a phial of clear, viscous oil of obviously high quality. Boya’s eyebrow creeps up, and Qing Ming blinks innocently at him as he dismisses the portal. 

“Yes, Boya?” He asks, as if he had not just used qi in such a blatantly wasteful and shameless manner. He wiggles the phial between his fingers, and Boya decides he can nitpick later. The heat that he was certain came from his Spirit form but now knows to be from the strength of his desire hasn’t abated, and it drives Boya to move. Rising to his elbow, Boya graces Qing Ming with a brow quirked in challenge before twisting onto his belly, tossing his head to flick the bulk of his hair to one side so he can peer back at Qing Ming over his shoulder. He hears more than sees the man swallow thickly and fumble the phial in his hands.

Fingers graze the back of his knee, trailing an almost ticklish path up the back of his thigh before smoothing down until a hot palm glides over a firm cheek, thumb pressing into and sweeping greedily over the curve of muscle there. Boya sighs and settles into the bedding, crossing his arms to rest his chin on as Qing Ming continues his exploratory petting, soon bringing his other hand to join in until he’s using them both to frame the bow of his back, thumbs finding the dimples crowning his flank. 

Boya expects him to be eager, to go right for the oil and promise of pleasure, which is the usual course of these things, and Boya would not be adverse- he still craves and aches in ways new to him. But instead, the skin of his back raises in gooseflesh as first hair descends to pool on it, and then warm lips. Qing Ming presses a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades, thumbs kneading hypnotic circles against the divots they had not strayed from, and Boya shudders, turning his head to rest his cheek against his forearms as another kiss is pressed against his back, lower. And another. And another, until Qing Ming is trailing a meandering line of wet fire down the line of his spine, each press of lips accompanied by the featherlight sweep of his hair, further sensitizing his flesh as he descends. 

The attention is...strange. Boya cannot remember if any of his bed partners had ever been so indulgent with him. He himself has been known to, on occasion, lavish his lovers with his touch- exploratory, intent, determined to wring sounds from them for his own appreciation but… he thinks there may have been a sense of disconnect between him and previous trysts- some yearning to but never quite certain enough to reach out and touch, while others touching with too firm hands and designs for their own pleasure.

As a result, Boya is unsure what to make of the way his body melts against the mattress, almost drunk on the luxurious sensations Qing Ming seems intent on gracing him with, and for a moment Boya wonders at the mans previous lovers, if they received such lavish attentions under the masters hands, and is promptly taken by surprise at the spark of ire the thought stirs. He is most certainly _not_ jealous, thank you, that would be undignified. Boya is far above such petty inclinations. 

Teeth nip lightly at the delicate skin above his tailbone, soothed swiftly by the wet slide of a velvet tongue, just grazing the crease of his ass while thumbs finally abandon their perch to trail lower, and Boya idly thinks he is liable to stab any fool who thinks to covet this. Boya is above jealousy, he decides, but not possessiveness. He is only human. 

Qing Ming’s thumbs abruptly slide between his cheeks, and Boya has only a brief second to wonder what the man thinks he’s doing before he is spread wide, and any protest he might have had at the indignity is thrown out the proverbial window as that hot, velvet tongue descends upon his exposed entrance. His back bows in shock, and a surprised moan bursts from his throat before he registers what is happening. Boya splutters, and lifts his head to cast an incredulous look over his shoulder. Qing Ming gazes back mischievously, and doesn’t break eye contact as he laps at his hole again, unrepentant. 

Belatedly, Boya remembers that this man’s mother was supposedly a fox spirit. 

_“Obscene!”_ He chokes, eyes wide, and Qing Ming responds by delving deeper, tongue laving over his fluttering entrance, sweeping, pressing, testing his tightness. Boya’s teeth clack together against the sound that threatens to leave him, and he hides his face in his crossed arms, panting. Almost without his consent, Boya’s thighs part further and his back arches, pressing himself closer to Qing Ming and his sinful mouth. The man makes a low, delighted sound at the action, and rewards him with a kiss directly over his hole. Boya absolutely does not whine. 

A thumb wiggles closer to his hole, before pressing against it alongside Qing Ming’s tongue, and Boya trembles as he feels himself give. The tongue slips inside, shallow but insistent, and his breath is punched out of him as pleasure shocks up his spine, sparking along his nerves like little starbursts. 

He’s never experienced anything like it. 

Any decency he thought to maintain during the act leaves him, and Boya bids it a mournful farewell as he clenches his eyes shut and groans loudly. The sound is echoed behind him, and the vibration of the noise has a direct line to his most sensitive parts, Boya quakes under Qing Ming’s lips. 

The thumb tugs gently but insistently on his rim and without warning, a slick finger slips deep inside him as Qing Ming’s tongue retreats. Boya exhales raggedly and clamps down on it reflexively, the action drawing a stuttering expletive from Qing Ming, who presses a soothing kiss against his hip. Boya unclenches, fighting his body’s instinctive desire to keep a stranglehold on the intrusion, and inhales deeply in an attempt to settle his racing heart. Sweat dampens the back of his neck despite the cool evening, and his hair sticks to the glistening skin. 

The finger inside him moves, stroking Boya gently from within, and any lingering discomfort quiets, fading as Qing Ming rests the hand not delving between his thighs on his rump, thumb moving in soothing circles upon his sweat damp skin. Little shocks of pleasure dance along his nerves with every slick glide of the digit buried in him, and Boya rumbles appreciatively. Qing Ming must take the sound as a sign, because after a moment he slowly withdraws his finger, before returning it with cautious company. Boya shudders as excess oil drips from him, displaced by the second finger that ever so carefully works its way in with the first, and he bites down on his own forearm to silence the sounds that threaten to tumble from him. 

The pair of fingers seat deep, and after a few moments for him to adjust, they retreat, only to return. The slick drag of them along his walls sets Boya’s nerves alight once more, and he grinds back into them with a muffled groan. His back threatens to ache from the arch he has been maintaining since Qing Ming had laid his tongue upon him, but Boya ignores it in favor of chasing the warm tingles of pleasure clever fingers stoke in him. The bed dips between his legs as Qing Ming shuffles closer, knees pressing insistently against his inner thighs until Boya obligingly widens them, spreading himself indecently and not caring. The motion somehow allows Qing Ming to slip his fingers deeper, and Boya releases his arm to pant wetly against it instead. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard, or wet, and the thought has him moaning despite himself as fingers curl within him, seeking. It’s obvious to them both when Qing Ming finds what he’s looking for, because Boya chokes and jerks against the mattress as a sharp burst of pleasure sings through him, startling in its intensity. 

Qing Ming eases back from the spot, and Boya breathes raggedly into his arms as he comes down from the sudden high, only to be thrust straight back to it as impish fingers curl and press into it once more. Body jolting under the assault, Boya groans as the touch does not abate, trembling against the bedding as Qing Ming presses and rubs mercilessly. It’s almost too much. _Is_ too much, and after a long moment that feels like an eternity of waves crashing against his nerves with no release from the glorious torment, Boya’s threadbare composure finally cracks, and he whines _,_ high and breathless.

Later, he might feel mortified by the sound that had just come out of his mouth, but right then and there Boya could care less. The fingers still haven’t retreated, and he is still being drowned in waves of pleasure so strong it borders on painful, and Qing Ming, the absolute _bastard_ seems intent on driving him mad. If his cock wasn’t pressed against the bedding by his own weight, Boya knows he would be dripping. There is still very much an obvious damp patch, however, but he can’t seem to find the brain power required to be embarrassed at the fact. All he can focus on are the fingers buried in his ass, pressing and stroking against that spot inside him that he knew existed, but had never quite been introduced to himself. If he ever sees the handful of men he’d allowed between his thighs again, he’s going to beat them with his bow, because he has been _cheated-_

_“Qing Ming!”_ He cries, overwhelmed and so, _so_ close. He thinks it might be embarrassing if he comes just from this, but he isn’t really sure if he _cares_. His heart is pounding in his breast, blood all but roaring in his ears and every muscle he has seems to be trying to vibrate off his very bones as he ruts desperately against the mattress, shaking hands clawing into the pillows.

“Bo _ya_.” Qing Ming replies, and he sounds _wrecked_ behind him, apparently just as affected by Boya’s pleasure as he is. His voice reminds Boya that there is in fact someone attached to the fingers driving him wild, that it is, in fact, still Qing Ming between his thighs, and suddenly Boya _needs him._ The overwhelming inferno of pleasure burning him out from within is suddenly not enough, the fingers stretching him are _not enough_ he needs _Qing Ming_ he _needs him_ _inside him please Qing Ming-_

“Ssshh.” It’s only as tender hands and lips soothe down his sweat dampened back and heaving sides, reverently sweeping the fall of his hair aside that Boya realizes he had said all that out loud, broken by his need and left begging with it. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to feel ashamed, doesn’t think he ought to be by the way Qing Ming pants hotly against his skin and gentles him with trembling hands, one still slick with oil and saliva. He feels empty without it, aching to be filled between the pulsing aftershocks of overstimulation. He’s surprised to realize that despite the overwhelming crash of pleasure he’d been subjected to, he hasn’t actually come yet. 

“Qing Ming.” He croaks, and startles at how _ruined_ he sounds. He hears the click of a dry throat trying to swallow, and then Qing Ming is there, blanketing him with his body and suffusing him with an almost stifling warmth and his woodsy scent, made potent with his exertions. 

“I’m here.” Qing Ming husks in his ear, and Boya arches against him with a sigh, pressing the hot line of his back against Qing Ming’s chest, his ass against the prominent outline of his cock, still hidden behind the loose fabric of his undone pants. Qing Ming grunts at the stimulation, as if surprised to remember that it’s even there at all, as if he’d been so wrapped up in Boya’s cries that he’d completely forgotten about his own pleasure. 

“Please.” Boya moans, and Qing Ming noses into his hair, inhaling deeply behind his burning ear. A kiss is pressed to the same spot before the weight against his back disappears, and Boya makes a sound of protest, silenced by gentle hands at his hips urging him to roll over. He doesn’t want to. He’d have nowhere to hide if he does. Doesn't think he can handle the intimacy of Qing Ming’s eyes on him on top of everything else. 

The hands are insistent however, and so Boya reluctantly turns. 

Once settled on his back with Qing Ming comfortably between his thighs, he’s quick to reach for the man’s neck to reel him in for a kiss. Qing Ming comes willingly as ever, and Boya closes his eyes as their lips meet again, relaxing gradually into the wet slide of lips and tongue. He doesn’t even spare a thought to where exactly said tongue has recently been as he coaxes it into his mouth and hungrily swallows the groan Qing Ming feeds him in response. He grows restless after a few moments, and intensifies the kiss with a nip to Qing Ming’s bottom lip, tugging it gently between his teeth. It produces a rumble from the man above him, and Boya plants his feet against the mattress to arch up against him, before snaking a hand between them to claw at the pants Qing Ming is ridiculously still wearing. Qing Ming must take the hint for what it is, because he withdraws only enough to shove at the fabric, pushing it from his hips until his arousal springs free at last, and Boya moans, widening his thighs in invitation at the glorious sight.

Qing Ming reaches to the side without taking his eyes off the man spread out beneath him, hand patting blindly against the bedding until he finds what he’s looking for, brandishing the half empty phial of oil. Boya barely resists snatching it from him, and instead waits impatiently as Qing Ming uncorks it and upends a generous amount over his hand, which he then uses to slick his cock. Boya watches in fascination as a shudder wracks his frame when he apparently fails to resist pumping himself a few times, and is not proud of the needy sound he makes as Qing Ming’s dark eyes flutter closed in pleasure. He wants to slap his hand away to wrap his own around it, wants to feel the weight and firmness of it against his palm and see what kind of sounds he can wring from those kiss swollen lips, but he is so empty he aches and Boya thinks he’s waited long enough. 

_“Qing Ming.”_ He pants, attempting a demand but falling closer to a plea, and Qing Ming’s eyes open, unerringly finding his, but does not move, the bastard. Boya wants to whine in frustration, but bites it back and instead contemplates grabbing his own cock, anything to bring him relief from the almost dizzying _want_ he feels. Qing Ming must read as much in his eyes, because he finally, _finally_ moves, carelessly wiping the remaining oil from his hand onto the bedding before setting his hands upon Boya’s spread knees, hot palms trailing a burning path over his thighs before abruptly gripping the back of them and pushing up. Boya exhales in surprise as he’s spread obscenely, and vaguely wonders if there’s an end to Qing Ming’s indecency, but thinks he can forgive him this once if it means he hurries up and gets inside him. 

Qing Ming hooks one of Boya’s legs over his arm and shifts closer, looming almost posessively over him as he grasps his own cock once more. A beat later Boya feels the blunt head of it at his entrance, and he tries to grind down onto it, to take it within him- only to realize he has no leverage with which to move. This time he does whine in frustration, and Qing Ming smiles deviously at him, the utter bastard, before pressing in without warning. 

Boya chokes as his body gives with startling ease, parting around the slick head of Qing Ming’s cock and allowing him to slide home in one long, smooth thrust, sending Boya scrambling for something to hold onto as he’s filled almost too quickly to handle. The pain is minimal, but he is almost overwhelmed by the magnificent stretch, so much more than just two fingers and infinitely better. He grips fistfuls of silken sheets and pulls, teeth clenched against what he is positive is a howl, and tries to breathe around the glorious sensation of _Qing Ming._

Above him, Qing Ming groans from somewhere deep in his chest, overcome as he seats himself fully in the willing body below him, and Boya feels the sound all the way to his bones. 

“Q-Qing Ming.” Boya gasps, sides heaving around his attempts to just _breathe._ Grip flexing against his thighs, Qing Ming gives an experimental roll of his hips, and whatever breath Boya had managed to regain whooshes out of him on a thready moan. Qing Ming stutters a curse, or maybe a benediction, and drops his head forward to hang between them, sending a river of his hair cascading over his shoulder. Boya clenches entirely unintentionally at the sight, and Qing Ming’s hips jerk and snap forward in response, punching some sort of sound right out of him. Whatever it was Boya doesn’t care, he just needs Qing Ming to do it again, to _move_ , to give him _more,_ everything he has he _wants it Qing Ming don’t stop._

He thinks he might be saying all this out loud again, isn’t entirely sure if he’s begging with his voice or his pleasure shot mind as he releases the sheets only to slap his hands against the headboard above him. Either way Qing Ming is complying, gasping Boya’s name like it’s a spell he’ll gladly cast for the rest of his life as he withdraws, only to sink back in over and over again, stoking the flames in them both higher with every thrust. 

Boya doesn’t think he’ll last, having been riding the edge for so long he thinks it won’t take much at all. He braces his hands against the board above his head and tries to meet the relentless roll of Qing Ming’s hips, but the position gives him no leverage to work with. He writhes, and whines. 

Qing Ming moans above him, dark eyes fixed on his face, but Boya doesn’t have the wits left in him to hide, only to reach for Qing Ming and drag him down into a kiss that ends too soon, ends with them panting wetly and open mouthed against each other’s lips. 

Pleasure is a resounding pulse in his veins, each glide of the cock within him a beat that sends him soaring higher and higher, so close he can almost taste it- until inexplicably, it stalls, and suddenly it’s not enough. He wants to reach for his cock, neglected and weeping against his heaving stomach, but he doesn’t want to let go of Qing Ming. Indecision wars within him, a matter so laughingly small but somehow all encompassing, and Boya groans more in frustration than in pleasure. 

Qing Ming must sense his dilemma, because he abruptly drops Boya’s legs to shove his hands under him before planting his knees in the mattress to heft him up. Boya grunts in surprise as he’s lifted, arms hooking around Qing Ming’s shoulders as he’s dropped to sit on the man’s still ridiculously covered thighs. He makes an appreciative sound as the new angle allows Qing Ming to sink deeper, and Boya wastes no time in utilizing his freed legs to lift himself almost completely off Qing Ming’s cock before sinking back down with a moan. Qing Ming grips his flank and aids him as he rises and falls again and again, hanging onto pale shoulders and rolling his hips. The action draws another utterance of his name from Qing Ming, and Boya leans in to slant their mouths together as he continues to ride his lover’s lap with ardour, the new angle causing Qing Ming to grind against that spot inside him on every other downward roll of his hips. 

Qing Ming gasps into his mouth, pulling away to drop his face into the sweaty curve of Boya’s neck and shoulder, and Boya rides him harder, faster, pushing them both towards release with almost single minded determination. Boya doesn’t notice as his short nails dig pink lines into Qing Ming’s shoulders, but he stutters out a moan as teeth sink into the heated skin of his own shoulder, Qing Ming abruptly bucking up as Boya descends. He does it again and Boya’s back snaps taut, head flying back in surprise as he chokes out a cry of-

 _“Qing Ming!”_ And the pleasure crests, crashing into and taking him. He comes _hard_ between them, untouched and edges of his vision whiting out, his spend painting Qing Ming’s chest. He goes boneless almost outside of his control, shuddering through aftershocks and slumping his full weight against the man under him for a moment before he attempts to pick up the pieces of himself that had scattered in the wake of a powerful orgasm. Qing Ming doesn’t give him the chance. Boya grunts as his back meets the bedding once more, and barely has the time to grab onto something before his thighs are gripped and pushed up and apart further than before. Qing Ming slams into him with a growl, and Boya chokes as he grips fistfuls of the sheets, holding on as Qing Ming finally gives in and chases his own pleasure. Each thrust bumps against that spot inside him, oversensitive but still sending pleasant sparks across his nerves, and Boya thinks wildly that he might come again if Qing Ming keeps it up. His lover stutters out a besotted moan that could be his name or pure nonsense, Boya doesn’t know, and jerks into him, hips faltering as his own release nears. A likely unintentional but well aimed regardless thrust nails that spot inside him dead on, and Boya arches, clamping down on Qing Ming and coming a second time, his moan high and incredulous. 

It’s either Boya coming again, or the vice like grip his body has on his cock that sends Qing Ming over the edge with a groan that almost sounds pained, but he slams deep a final time, going rigid above Boya, hips jerking as he spends himself inside, each pulse of his cock sending a shudder up Boya’s spine, making him moan faintly at the feel of it.

Qing Ming releases his thighs and goes boneless above him, and Boya grunts as he’s abruptly buried under a sweaty, disheveled yin yang master. Legs falling open against the mattress, Boya pants and absently drops a hand to bury his fingers in midnight hair, nails scraping lazily against Qing Ming’s scalp as they both reluctantly return to earth. With his face pressed into the sweaty curve of Boya’s neck, Qing Ming sighs, somehow going even more limp against him. Boya thinks that if he were a lessor man, he might wheeze under the dead weight pressing him down, as it is however, he just snorts. Qing Ming hums into his neck, entirely unconcerned and unrepentant, before reluctantly withdrawing. Boya gasps despite himself as the softening cock still inside him finally slips free, and his ears heat as a combination of oil and _Qing Ming_ spills from him, further soiling the sheets, the bed dipping as Qing Ming rolls to the side with a grunt of effort that Boya can’t really begrudge him for. 

Sweaty, sticky, with hair a riotous mess about him and legs still open and boneless on the bedding, Boya closes his eyes, thoroughly satisfied, pleasantly sore, and _basks_ whilst ignoring the absolutely singular sensation of _leaking_. 

“Boya.” One dark eye slants open, and Boya glances at the man languishing beside him, propped up on one elbow. 

“Mn?” He grunts, and a hand gently sweeps over his chest, fingers delicately tugging swathes of his hair from his throat. He sighs. 

“You are quite debauched, Boya. It's very improper.” Qing Ming says, impish, and Boya’s eyes open on a roll. 

“Qing Ming?” He says, and the man hums, still tenderly rearranging the mess of his hair, almost petting him as he works. 

“Yes, Boya?” Boya closes his eyes, pointedly doing nothing about his graceless and rather undignified sprawl, and tries not to shiver too obviously at the featherlight touches.

“Shut up.” He says. Beside him, unseen, Qing Ming grins, foxlike, and sweeps a lock of sweat sticky hair from Boya's brow, before leaning down to plant a kiss that lingers high on his cheek, not once ceasing the barely there tracing of his fingers over Boya's cooling, damp skin. Boya drifts under dedicated fingers, and is asleep without his express permission between one sigh and the next. 

Unbeknownst to him, Qing Ming continues to tenderly stroke his skin and hair long into the night. 

  
  
  


~Fin

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have about nine more pages of this from Qing Ming's POV that I ended up cutting out. Might make it a companion piece to this one, might not. 
> 
> It's mostly just Qing Ming being dumb, in love, and horny tbh.
> 
> *Ice Born Abyss, concept shamelessly lifted from Mo Dao Zushi/The Untamed because I couldn't find something appropriately Not Good in Chinese mythology that fit my purposes. There's more on it in Qing Ming's segment but who knows if that'll ever see the light of day -shrug- 
> 
> Let me know what you think! <3


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